


Shakespeare and Apple Pie

by xosairbearxo



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xosairbearxo/pseuds/xosairbearxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Hiddleston asks you out to dinner. Whipped cream, dancing, and sex in the rain? Sounds like a pretty great date to me!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shakespeare and Apple Pie

It’s Friday afternoon and you’ve arrived back at your apartment building at the same time, as usual. You walk into the front door of the lobby and immediately get an excited grin on your face. This is a pleasant surprise – only it shouldn’t be a pleasant surprise at all. Tom is standing over at the mail boxes, eyes staring down at the copious amounts of envelopes in his hands as he casually flips through them. A part of you feels bad for him – you know how much of a big shot he is, and it seems as though every day, his mail slot is overflowing with more envelopes than should comfortably fit in such a small box. You imagine the postman fighting the contained space every day, grunting and struggling overdramatically to squeeze every last piece of mail into it. At the same time, you also feel the slightest bit jealous; all you ever get is bills, with the odd letter from your mom, who lives back overseas. Sometimes, you envy him for the countless letters of adoration – the reminder that you’re always on someone’s mind. 

You walk past Tom and go to your own mailbox, like you always do. He glances over at you and smiles your way. “Good afternoon, darling,” he says – like he always does. You flash him a quick smile and then lightly say, “Welcome back.” 

This sort of exchange had become ritualistic for the two of you in the last eight months. When you’d first moved to the UK to begin your program at RADA, you had no idea that Tom lived in the same building. Then you’d bumped into each other at this very spot one morning and took part in casual small talk. You instantly recognized him, having been a fan of his work, but you didn’t say anything about it, lest it give him the wrong idea. You’d always been a fan, but never a ‘fangirl’ – the ones who stalk and scare and plot to have his babies and kidnap him so they could turn him into a lampshade in some creepy basement. 

This exchange would happen every once in a while for weeks afterwards; running into each other casually in the lobby and exchanging brief, polite words but never really progressing further than that. You remember the time when you came home – again on a Friday, and again, at the same time – to find him standing there rummaging through his mail, the same as he is right now. You smiled and said your hellos, and then Tom broke the pause of brief silence, his eyes still flicking through the envelopes. “Do you know who I am?” he had asked casually.

You knew he didn’t mean it the way that any other celebrity would’ve meant it. For them, it would’ve been a testimony to an overinflated ego – asking because they wanted you to be aware and be impressed and fall to their feet in giddiness. But Tom didn’t mean it like that. That was his way of trying to figure you out; testing your honesty and knowing whether friendship was possible. If you lied, he would know, and then trust – opening up – would be difficult for him. So instead, you looked over at him and simply answered, “Yes.”

He got a small smile and nodded, eyes still on his mail. Then he lowered it and lifted his head, turning to you. “Does it bother you?” he had asked. His fame, his notoriety, his lack of privacy – these were the things he meant. He didn’t have to explain it; you knew.

You had kept your gaze firm and light at the same time. “Nope,” you responded, because it was true – none of that stuff bothered you. Why would it have? If anything, the odd chatter with him here and there proved to you that he really was just like everyone else: a human being. A normal human being who just happened to have gotten his lucky break in the world. He was simply an example of where you hoped you could be one day in your career (and you had mentioned to him in passing that you were going to his Alma Mater, which wasn’t a school for the faint of heart). Shrugging slightly with a smile, you broke eye contact to open up your mailbox, only to find that it had been empty. That was alright. It was better than bills.

Your reaction had been a pleasant surprise for him. He wasn’t used to people reacting that way to him anymore unless they too were already accustomed to fame on a personal level and understood how inconsequential it all really was. Fame wasn’t why he was an actor, and fame didn’t make him a different man than he’d been before. But people always seemed to treat him like he was. The attention was flattering, but it made it difficult to know who was really interested in getting to know him versus who had already made up their mind about him - in love with an IDEA of who he was rather than knowing the man behind the image. 

He had asked you because you interested him; you seemed sweet, and he liked your smile. He wanted to get to know you better but wanted to be sure where you stood. You could have lied to him; you could have denied knowing who he was to try and seem above the rest of the world. And maybe you MIGHT HAVE not known who he was, but unfortunately that seemed unlikely, given how much his face had been plastered all over the television in the last year. Your sincerity revealed your character, and he very much liked what he saw.

After that, you two seemed to bump into each other more frequently and your conversations lasted longer. A few minutes would turn into a half hour; a half hour eventually turned into an hour. None of it made it past the lobby, though; you’d run into each other, always by the mail boxes, and wouldn’t even care that you stood there looking silly while you engaged in full-on chats while others came and went. 

Tom’s personal schedule seemed to change along the way, too. Due to all of the press and filming he had going on, there were usually several days in a row where you wouldn’t see him at all. You grew to miss him on those days. But no matter what he was doing, he always seemed to be at his mailbox every Friday afternoon when you’d come walking through the front door. Then he’d just sort of… disappeared. One Friday he was there, the next he was not. You’d waited there for a few minutes, not wanting to leave in case he showed up. When he didn’t, you sighed, gathered your bills, and headed up to your apartment. Browsing the internet quickly informed you that he was filming something in America; you remembered then that it had come up in your last conversation but you must’ve forgotten. You didn’t know how long he was going to be gone for, and no way of contacting him to ask. And why would you have asked anyways? How could you have justified wanting to know – and what if he asked why you were curious? ‘Oh, you know, I just miss you.’ Yeah, not going to happen.

So seeing him standing here now - as if he’d never left at all - was the perfect way to end an otherwise stressful day at school. Had it already been a month since you last spoke? Your heart flutters lightly at that handsome face, making you realize in full just how much you’ve missed it in its absence. 

“Thank you,” he says genuinely. “But it’s always good to be back home. You’ve been well?”

You nod. “Mhm. Been busy – rehearsing a few scenes for class – but other than that, I’ve been good.” 

There’s silence now, and you can’t help but feel a bit awkward. You’d thought your little reunion would’ve been a bit more… magical? You don’t know exactly. He just seems too nonchalant, and you don’t quite know what to make of it. You decide to try not to over-think things and just continue with your routine as usual. Sticking your key in the lock, you twist it and open the small door to the metal slot. 

There are no envelopes – no bills or letters or the like – but there IS a single slip of paper. Confused, you pull it out and hold it up. 

‘Dinner tonight?   
☐ Yes  
☐ No’

With knitted eyebrows, you suddenly realize Tom’s eyes are on you expectantly. Turning to him with a questioning expression, he gives you a knowing smile. Not saying anything, he holds out a pen that you hadn’t even realized he’s been holding in his hand the entire time. It sinks in that Tom’s asking you on… a DATE, it would seem. Inside, you’re bursting with excitement and want to start giggling uncontrollably. Outside, you somehow maintain a cool, calm exterior; a small smile curls up one side of your mouth as you narrow your eyes at him and take the pen. 

Teasingly, you palm the note and turn away from him so he can’t see you scribble down your answer – playfully acting as if there’s even the slightest chance you’re going to say no. You hear him chuckle lightly from behind you. A second later, you turn and hand him back the pen. Straightening yourself, you fold the paper. He holds out his hand but to his surprise, you walk up, squeeze right in front of him, and slide the paper into the crack of the closed mailbox slot. He laughs as you both watch it disappear into the locked container. You turn with a sly twinkle in your eye and move out of his way, motioning for him to check his mail. Equally as playful, Tom reopens the small metal door and feigns surprise when he sees that – why, look at that! – there’s something in there for him!

He checks your answer, his smile growing slightly bigger when he sees your checkmark in the ‘yes’ box. He looks to you and then flips the paper around and uses the wall to write something else down. Still not saying anything, he hands it back. You read it.

‘Meet me here at 7:30?’

You look up at him through long lashes and give him a hard-to-get look, like you’re thinking on it and need to mentally make sure you don’t already have other plans. “Hmmm…” you hum, tapping your chin. He laughs. You return the sound and then nod, backing away with the note still in hand and flashing him one last smile before turning and rounding the corner to head up to your apartment. You know his eyes have followed you and you’re glad he can’t see the ridiculous grin on your face.

Always leave them wanting more.  
…

7:30pm comes WAY too quick. You feel nervous but somehow calm; terrified but somehow assured. You worry you’ll talk too much – you’re worried HE’LL talk too much and then you won’t know what to say. You have no idea whether he’s taking you somewhere fancy or somewhere casual, so you had no way to prepare the proper outfit. In the end, you’ve decided on a modest (but still subtly sexy) and simple black dress. You pull your hair into a messy ponytail and keep your makeup natural. You think you look nice; you HOPE so, anyways. 

You wonder if you should show up fashionably late, or if this is a bad idea. You don’t want to be there RIGHT on time, and seem too eager or pathetic… but you also don’t want to wait TOO long and have him thinking that you don’t take time with him seriously. You realize at 7:35 that you’ve just wasted five minutes thinking about it, so you quickly run out of your apartment, trying to put on your heels in the process and completely forgetting to lock the door behind you. 

When you round the corner and enter the front lobby, sure enough, there’s Tom standing by the wall of mail slots and looking absolutely gorgeous – and very casually dressed. You’re instantly glad you picked the outfit you did. He gives you a wide grin, his eyes dancing as they take in the sight of you. “Hello,” he greets you bubbly. 

“Hey,” you reply, walking up to his tall, lithe frame. You both laugh nervously and then Tom’s eyes roam up and down your body. “You look beautiful,” he says quickly. You laugh again, because all you want to do is jump up and down and maybe do some sort of dance. You want to scream from a mountain top and maybe sing a Disney song or two. But you can’t do any of these things, so laughing is the best substitute you can think of.

“Thanks, so do you.” He gives you an amused look and you realize how silly that sounded. “I – I didn’t mean YOU… you don’t look beautiful. I mean, you DO look… it’s just that you said…” You sigh, covering your face quickly and you both chuckle; you from nerves and he from seeing just how adorably you’re behaving. “Let’s try that again,” you say slowly, giving each word emphasis. “Thank you; you look handsome.” 

“Thank you,” he replies, looking jubilant. He holds out his arm for you to take. “Shall we?” he asks chivalrously. You giggle under your breath and hook your arm around his, turning to head out the front door. He pulls you back in the opposite direction and you almost trip over your own feet. He’s walking you back through the front lobby, back towards the elevators, and you’re looking at him, not understanding. 

He sees your furrowed brows and laughs. “You’ll see,” is all he’ll give you as you step back into the elevator and he presses the button for the desired floor. You ride on up and then step out, your arm still entwined with his. He leads you down the halls, turning corners whenever necessary, before coming up to an apartment door. He turns the knob and lets his arm slide out from around yours so he can step inside and hold the door open for you. 

You’ve pretty much pieced everything together, but you still jokingly say as you walk in, “This isn’t the part where you tell me you’re secretly a serial killer, is it?”

He closes the door behind you, letting out a soft, “Eheheheh… No darling, don’t worry.” He walks with you into the kitchen, where you see ingredients set up on the counter. Now you understand, and you smile, your heart warming at the gesture. “I thought I’d make you dinner; restaurants can be so impersonal sometimes,” he explains, trying to contain his excitement. He pours you both a glass of red wine and then hands you yours. “But first, I should give you a tour.”

He walks you around the apartment (you can’t help but notice how much nicer and more elegant his setup is than yours), pausing in each room to give you a chance to briefly look. Your heart quickens a bit when he shows you his bedroom. Your eyes automatically look to his bed and stay on it the entire time. You can’t help but picture what it’d be like lying in it… with him on top of you. But then he’s clearing his throat and stammering out, “And the bathroom is over here…” So you reluctantly follow him. Damn. 

Eventually, you wind up back in the kitchen. “So, what are we having?” you ask, eyeing the ingredients. He claps his hands together and jogs over to it before turning back to you. 

“We are having ‘salsa puttanesca’,” he answers, pronouncing the dish with a perfect Italian accent. “Also known as ‘spaghetti alla puttanesca’,” he quickly adds, filling the brief moment of silence. “Which translates in Italian to ‘spaghetti a la whore’…” 

A small sound escapes your throat as you quickly cover your mouth and try not to laugh. He trails off and frowns, as if he realizes he’s just spoken without thinking. “That was a bit much, wasn’t it?” he wonders aloud. He still stares off, and waves his hand in the air. “I do that sometimes… ramble without thinking.”

You continue to try and hide the laughter behind your hand, but it’s no use. It comes out in chortles and he hears it, looking over at you and breaking out into a relieved laughter as well. “It sounds good, all the same,” you assure him in between chuckles. “Anything I can do to help?”

He smiles at you and shakes his head. “No, but thank you. It’s actually quite simple to make; just keep me company.”

“Really? I thought maybe I’d go catch a movie while you got everything ready,” you playfully jest as you remove your heels from your feet so you’re now barefoot. The relief is instantaneous; you hate wearing heels. You walk over to the empty stretch of countertop next to the ingredients and place your back against it. Palming the edge, you lift yourself up so you’re sitting on the cool marble. He looks at you with slight surprise and then gets a warm look on his face; you’re sprightly and unconventional and unlike anyone he’s ever met before. You walk into a room and make yourself right at home - and he thinks that this might be why he found you so compelling when he first laid eyes on you all those months ago. He’s always held a quiet confidence, with little being able to make him nervous. But you… you make him nervous. It reminds him of being a child with a schoolboy crush again; he likes it. 

He lets out another, “Eheheheh,” and then goes to the sink and washes his hands. He pulls out the tomato sauce, opening the jar and setting it aside, before beginning to cut and dice the tomatoes and kalamata olives. He finishes by slicing a little bit of garlic and then turns on one of the stove elements, placing a pot onto it. He pours the tomato sauce into it and then mixes in the rest of the ingredients in what you assume is the “right” order. He then fills up a second pot with water and places it on another element for it to boil. Adding in the spaghetti noodles, he alternates between stirring them and stirring the simmering sauce; all the while, chatting away with you.

Things don’t feel so awkward or nerve-wracking anymore. You expected it would be like this anyways; it always is on a first date – and that’s what this is, as crazy as it is for you to believe. But all you both needed was a moment to forget WHY you felt shy around each other; then you suddenly find yourself lost in the easy and natural chit-chat you’ve engaged in so many times before. He regales you with stories of his time on set while he was gone, and you fill him in on what you’ve been doing at RADA. He asks how specific instructors are doing, and when you tell him that the biggest scene you’re preparing for is from Romeo and Juliet, his eyes light up and he offers his help to read with you if you ever need a partner to rehearse. 

“I played Romeo when I attended Cambridge,” he mentions while stirring the sauce. He test tastes it with the wooden spoon and then shakes his head a bit. He walks over to a cupboard and pulls out some spices you don’t recognize and pinches a bit into the mixture. “Eyes, look your last,” he begins to recite without much inflection, alternating stirring between the two pots again. It comes out sounded more like a train of thought rather than a conscious display. “Arms, take your last embrace / And, lips, O you / The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss / A dateless bargain to engrossing death. / Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide. / Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on / The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark! / Here’s to my love!”

He glances at you, realizing he’s rambled again, and then overdramatically pretends to drink from an invisible bottle and die. You chuckle, impressed – although you know this little performance shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve heard plenty about how Tom gets when it comes to Shakespeare. “I’m surprised you didn’t automatically go to the balcony scene,” you say, absentmindedly tapping the back of your heel off of the cupboard behind your feet. “That’s usually the first place everyone goes.”

“Eheheh…” He runs his free hand through his hair and shakes his head, feeling slightly guilty. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “I get carried away when it comes to Sha—”

“What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?” you cut him off, reciting quickly. His head snaps over to you in surprise, a breathless smile spreading across his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. / O churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop / To help me after? I will kiss thy lips, / Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, / To make me die with a restorative. / Thy lips are warm … Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger, / This is thy sheath … There rust, and let me die.”

He falters a second before chuckling and nodding. “Yes, precisely – although this is hardly conducive to pleasant dinner conversation,” he points out. He dips the wooden spoon back into the sauce, which is now simmering nicely and ready to serve. Bringing it to his lips, he blows on it slightly and then tastes it. He gives a small nod. “Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. Then he turns to you and walks over so he’s standing directly in front of you. His hips bump into your bare knees and a sudden rush of arousal pulsing through you; you try and ignore it. Lifting the spoon up and holding a palm up underneath in case it drips, he urges, “Try this.”

You make eye contact and the stare lingers for too long. With you sitting on the counter and him standing so close, you’re at perfect eye level. You could simply lean in and press your lips against his if you really wanted to – and you DO really want to. He’s so tempting… But you don’t know if you should rush things. So, keeping your eyes glued to his, you lean forward and part your lips to gingerly taste the sauce. His orbs break contact to trail down to your lips. He watches them with a transfixed expression you hope isn’t just a product of your imagination. The taste of the sauce surprises you; it’s spicy and salty and tangy all at once, and sets your taste buds on fire. Your eyes widen and light up. “Mmm!” you hum enthusiastically. “That’s delicious!”

He looks back up and grins, thrilled that you approve. “Perfect; then it’s all finished,” he tells you. He pulls out some plates and cutlery and goes back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, setting everything up. He sets down the bottle of wine and his glass, and then brings in the pots one by one and fills the plates with their portions. Lastly, he lays down a fresh loaf of French bread, along with some butter. He tells you you can come in now, and so you hop off the counter and follow his voice. He’s standing next to the table, looking from the setting to you with anticipation, his face eager to please. It’s adorable.

You walk over to the seat, and he quickly pulls it out for you. “Oh, thank you,” you laugh, not used to such gentlemanly gestures. He pushes it in and then sits down. The pasta is amazing; one of the best things you’ve ever tasted. You mentally add being a good cook to the long list of things that you like about this man. “So did you learn how to cook this in Italy?” you ask, him having mentioned while he had been cooking that he’d spent some time over there when he was younger.

He nods, making sure to swallow what’s in his mouth before answering. “Yes, along with some other dishes. Perhaps I can show you more of them next time.” 

There’s a pause and you look over at him, your eyebrows rising and a small, surprised smile on your face. He catches your expression and then knits his own brows together, seemingly considering that perhaps he said too much again. “Is that too soon?” he asks you, not completely sure if he’s just messed things up. His cheeks redden. “I mean, there doesn’t HAVE to be a next time, I just meant…”

You giggle. “No, it’s okay,” you assure him. You take a minute to inhale; inside, you’re still fighting the urge to dance happily around the room. Calmly, you add, “I would like there to be a next time.” 

His face is impassive at first – almost like he’d expected you to reject him. And then a smile of relief graces his face and he nods. “Okay, good,” he mutters to himself, embarrassed. “Phew.” 

He’s so much more flustered than you were expecting, and so undeniably cute that you can’t help but giggle again before taking another bite of your food. But now he’s doubting himself and you can feel the air about to become awkward again, so you decide to change the subject; get him back into his comfort zone. 

“So what was your favourite Shakespearean play you’ve ever been in?” you ask.

This is always a safe zone for Tom, and you know it. If you didn’t know it before tonight, it would’ve been immediately apparent when he’d quoted Romeo and Juliet as effortlessly as if he’d done the play just yesterday, rather than over ten years ago. He seems to visibly relax at the question, and before you know it, he’s talking faster than you can keep up with; speaking as if he’s got a thesaurus in hand and throwing out enough metaphors to make even the Bard himself pause and think. The answer segues into about ten different topics, too. It starts off with his answer to the question, before it becomes him telling you what his favourite Shakespearean play is in GENERAL (which isn’t JUST one specifically, of course, but elements of many, so he’s quoting about six different plays randomly throughout his speech). Suddenly he’s doing impressions and randomly showing off how many languages he can code switch into… And it feels almost frantic, in a way. Like there’s an ulterior motive to why he’s saying all of this, and even he might not completely recognize it. But he’s so gorgeous and so sweet, and he’s trying so hard; the only thing you can do is watch him with an adoring smile. 

You let him take all the time he needs to finish and eventually, he does. He looks like he’s coming down from the adrenaline and his speech just sort of dies off. He pauses, looking forward, and then chuckles under his breath and looks up at you. He sees the expression on your face and then nervously asks, “What?”

Without over-thinking things, you reach out and close your hand over his, squeezing it reassuringly. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?” you say. 

“Do what?”

You give him a knowing look. “Try and impress me. You don’t have to sell yours qualities to me – I’m already here.”

He blinks with surprise and then mulls your words over. “I wasn’t…” he starts to say, and then sighs, laughing breathlessly. He lets go of his fork and then covers his face with one hand; absentmindedly, his other hand squeezes yours. “Okay, maybe a little bit,” he admits, uncovering his face. Then his expression becomes more confident. “But in all actuality, I AM like this most of the time,” he insists to you. He looks down at his and your hands, and your heart slams against your chest as you watch a tender, crooked smile spreads across his lips. He squeezes your hand again and then says slowly, “But… if I wanted to keep impressing you… could I?” 

You get this image of you leaping across the table and slamming your lips to his, kissing him until neither of you can breathe. His charm is overwhelming, and so is he. This morning, you didn’t even know when you’d see him again; every day felt increasingly incomplete without him in your life. You missed him more than you could even comprehend, and you didn’t even realize it until you’d seen him that afternoon. Now it’s all crashing down upon you. You’re here, and here’s here, and he made you dinner, and is holding your hand. He’s trying – no, he’s WANTING – to impress you. You want to tell him how amazing he is; how he doesn’t have to try with you because he had you the first time he smiled and greeted you with a polite hello, that fateful morning all those months ago. You were his from the get-go… you just hadn’t realized it yet. 

Little do you know that he’s thinking the exact same thing about you.

Your cheeks turn a light rose as you look down and nod shyly. “Yeah, I’d be okay with that,” you reply playfully, flashing him that teasing smile that you don’t realize he’s so crazy about. Reluctantly, you let go of each other’s hands and resume eating and nursing your wine slowly. 

“Sooooo…” you say amusedly after a while of silence, flashing him a devious grin. “Is it true? All those rumours about your weird obsession with pudding?”

He’s mid-sip of his glass of wine and suddenly sputters into the glass, couching lightly and then bursting into loud laughter, you joining him. It takes him a minute and then he shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m still not entirely sure where that whole thing came from,” he admitted. “I mean, I DO like pudding, but I wouldn’t say I’m OBSESSED…”

You feign a look of disbelief, nodding as if you don’t believe him but are merely humouring him. He gives you a look and then you’re both laughing. “SPEAKING of dessert –” he says.

You cut him off. “Oh my god, if you tell me that we’re having pudding for dessert, I’m posting this to Tumblr,” you groan. He falters and then you point at him and exclaim, “Just kidding. But seriously.” 

“Eheheheh… Not, not pudding.” He gets up from his seat, taking your empty plate and placing it over his. He walks by you and pokes you playfully in the side, causing your body to spasm lightly on impact. In reality, all it’s done is made you acutely aware of what else his fingers could be doing to you. Your eyes follow him as he leaves the room. You get up and follow him back into the kitchen. 

He sets the oven and then goes and places the dirty dishes in the dishwasher as you hoist yourself back up onto the counter. You make sure to fight the urge to sit with your legs parted – as you usually do. After all, it’s not exactly very “lady-like”, and you assume that’s the type of women he usually goes after – classy women. Plus, you’re in a dress and if you forgot that, you’d look like a big of a slag… and Tom would most likely be able to see everything you had to offer.

You wonder if he’d even mind. The thought of the look on his face as his eyes lingered on your inner thighs is enough to make you wet. You re-adjust yourself uncomfortably on the countertop.

He goes to the other counter and opens up a box, pulling out a pre-made apple pie. “Is this alright?” he asks, holding it out for you to see. “I wasn’t sure what sorts of sweets you like, and this is a classic, so…” 

You nod. “I love it, thanks. It looks yummy,” you reply. 

Grinning, he places it back down and then pulls out two plates and small forks to set aside in preparation. Opening up the fridge, he pulls out a can of whipped cream and shakes it slightly. “And of course, you can’t have apple pie without whipped cream right?” he asks rhetorically – but you can almost swear you hear something subtly suggestive in his tone. Your eyes fall on the can and your skin prickles; a torrent of vivid, dirty thoughts cross your mind. You clear your throat and look away before he can notice. 

You chat about more stuff until the oven is ready. He pops the pie in and then looks to the clock, making a mental note of what time he’ll need to check it again. Your orbs can’t leave him; somehow, he looks even more attractive when he’s lost in his own thought, doing natural, everyday things. His right eyebrow arching ever so slightly when he’s thinking… the tip of his tongue pushing behind his top teeth when he laughs… These sorts of things. You were wrong before when you tried to backpedal and said he wasn’t beautiful. He is. With every fiber of his being, he is the most beautiful thing you think you’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Tom?” you say quietly, your heart palpitating in your chest with adrenaline. You wring your hands in your lap. You’re nervous, but the need you feel is stronger. 

“Mhm?” he asks, looking almost concerned by the look on your face. He walks over to you and stands in front of you again. Suddenly feeling shy, you keep your eyes fixed on your lap, your face flushed but an undeniable pulsing and heat growing in your sex by his closeness. He bends slightly and tilts his head down so he can look up and meet your gaze. “Hey, you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding and forcing yourself to look up; he straightens, and you are once again practically at eye level (with him just slightly taller than you). You can still back out… but you don’t want to. Is this fast? You can’t bring yourself to care. You take a deep breath and then whisper, meeting his eyes, “If I promise not to go telling everyone… Can I kiss you?”

He blinks, taking in what you’re asking. He gets a little, gentle smile, his heart skipping a beat. He reaches up a hand and brushes away a loose strand of your hair that’s fallen out of the ponytail, tucking it behind your ear. He wants this moment to be perfect. His blue eyes fall on your lips and he leans in, unknowingly holding his breath. Suddenly his lips are gently caressing yours and you both close your eyes instinctively. It’s soft and innocent and lasts only a few seconds. He pulls back and resumes breathing again, but he keeps his lips close enough that they’re just barely grazing yours. 

“Like that?” he whispers, eyes still closed. 

Your head spins and all you can feel is that intense pounding from between your legs as more blood rushes to your sex. You’re desperate to feel his hands touching you, providing relief for the aching arousal slowly driving you insane with lust with each passing second.

“Do it again,” you plead breathily, almost inaudibly. 

He groans and brings his hands to your face, closing the gap between your lips a second time. This kiss is hungrier; it’s filled with need. He breathes in your scent as his lips work against yours, your hands finding their way to his side and gripping there. His fingers hold onto the back of your head and he pulls you closer, closer, still not close enough; unleashing everything he’s been holding in – not just tonight, but over the last eight months. You’ve wanted to do this since you first met him, and so has he. There is months’ of longing in this kiss. 

He kisses you quickly, tilting his face back and forth from side to side, your lips parting with each new embrace. He slides his tongue into your mouth and you sigh gratefully, meeting it with your own. They beat together, they dance, and he tastes so perfect. As the fervor increases, he steps even closer so that his body nudges its way in between your legs, parting them so they hug either side of his waist. His hips press against the edge of the counter top and he lowers a hand quickly to the small of your back and pulls your body forward roughly, so that your chest is pushed up against his. Your dress hikes up, revealing your black laced panties underneath, and you can feel yourself grinding up against the waistline of his pants. The material of your underwear is thin; you can feel the cool button of his jeans pressing against your clit, stroking along you as both of your frantic movements cause your sex to continuously pulse against the round metal. 

You whimper lightly into his mouth. The sound makes his head spin. He groans in response and tries desperately to kiss you as hard as he can; his tongue claiming yours, exploring your mouth and reveling in your taste and making it his in its entirety. He keeps his hand pressed firmly against your tailbone so your body can’t escape his, and you’re glad of it. You want him to keep you there; you don’t want him to ever let you leave. 

You move one hand up into his own hair. You’re thankful that whatever he has been doing over the past month, he’s grown it out a little bit. You love having something to grab onto. You both battle to get more, because you need it… More. More from lips, more from tongues, more friction, more heat, more of each other… You nip his bottom lip, mewling softly, and he lets out a tiny gasp. Then suddenly he’s gripping around the elastic band bunching your tresses together and tugs back, forcing your head away from his mouth. It’s rough and dominating and absolutely erotic, feeling how badly he wants you right now. It’s a feeling you understand completely. 

With your beautiful neck now exposed, his lips immediately drop to the skin and begin planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve. When they land under the thin skin beneath your ear, he presses his face closer and begins to suck gently, his tongue running along the skin between his lips as he tries to provoke the slightest blemish to the surface. You moan under your breath, the hand in his hair sliding down to knead the back of his neck while the other can’t seem to decide between gripping his back of his rear. 

He tries to tell you how badly he wants you – wants you right here, right now, all night long and tomorrow and the day after that and every day following – but the moment his lips rise, they are magnetically pulled back to yours, having spent too much time away from them. His tongue is immediately gliding back sensually against yours, and now his hand pressing against your back leaves and slides up the outer edge of one of your exposed thighs. It gets lost beneath your dress and grips onto your hips, almost painfully. It sends wave after wave of hot, pulsing arousal throughout your body. 

You two remain like this, lips and tongues caressing greedily and hands exploring, though it never progresses from there. Neither of you care; you’re lost in this moment and loving it too much to focus on the fact that you still want more. There’s no point fighting it and there’s no point questioning it; you don’t wonder if this is too fast because you know it isn’t. It’s right. It’s completely, unquestionably right in every way possible. The way you both see it, is that you already waited eight months. Now is the time to make up for all for that. 

Time slips away and neither Tom nor you notices. You don’t know the faint smell of burnt pastry or the smoke that’s started billowing out of the top of the oven door. It’s only when the sudden, piercing high-pitched shriek of the smoke alarm goes off that both of your eyes fly wide and Tom breaks away from you. “Shit!” he hisses quickly, running to grab a dish towel and then turning off the oven. You hop down from the counter – too preoccupied to dwell on the abundant wetness between your legs – and move around but not really know what to do, since Tom is moving so quickly. He opens the oven door and then uses the towel to fan away the smoke until the alarm finally desists. He tosses the small towel onto the counter and then grabs oven mitts. Both of your eyes bulge when he pulls out the former apple pie – which can hardly constitute as a pie at this point. It’s black and smells awful and is still producing mass amount of smoke. 

You fan in front of your face and he scrunches his nose, his right eyebrow arching. Looking to you, all you can say is, “…Whoops.” But you can’t help but notice his eyes are still dilated, and you’re both still panting heavily. He starts laughing first and then you’re quick to follow. 

“You distracted me,” he tutts, putting the burnt pie down onto a free, neutral element on the stove. 

You raise your own eyebrow at him now. “Oh, I distracted you?” you repeat with mock offense. He shoots you a dark grin, both of you still caught up in the feel of the other’s bodies, as he turns and continues trying to clear the smoke out of the room. You shrug and then bring your fingers up to the left strap of your dress. “Okay, then I’ll stop distracting you,” you say innocently. He glances at you over his shoulder and then freezes, his eyes dropping to the strap now sliding down your arm. JUST when it falls over the left cup of your bra, exposing it, you quickly pull it back up, covering yourself again. 

He turns and straightens, blue eyes dragging up to yours and any trace of a smile on his face now gone. You maintain your angelic façade. “What?” you playfully prod. “Stop getting distracted by me.” 

He doesn’t laugh. His hands bawl into fists and he makes a motion as if he’s going to come running at you. You flinch, a grin expanding on your face as you hold up your hands and point at him. “No, don’t!” you warn, giddy laughter already welling in your throat. He feigns the gesture again, an impish grin now forming across his lips as he watches you flinch again. “Tom!” you say, your voice rising; the excitement now in his eyes mirrored in your own. 

Despite your pleas, he starts chasing you, and you turn on your heel and run, screaming and laughing. You don’t make it far – only to the living room – before his arms reach out from behind you and tangle around your waist, wrapping quickly and hoisting you back against him. You lightly struggle, laughing loudly; his own breathy chuckles audible from behind you. He tightens his hold on you and brings his lips to the back of your ear, rasping out in a mock threatening tone, “Such a distraction… How am I ever to get stuff done around here with you teasing me? That’s not very nice, you know.” To emphasize his point, to show you how naughty you’ve been, he slithers a hand down your stomach and ever so quickly rubs against the inside of your thighs. Your laughter immediately stops and is replaced with a gasp, your pupils expanding even more as lust once again takes over. 

You feel the tip of your ear get taken between his teeth as he nips it lightly. Then he’s tightening both arms around your stomach again and lifting you right off the ground, effortlessly carrying you against him as he rounds a corner and you both enter his bedroom. With the other hand, he flicks on the light and then lets you go. You immediately spin around and throw your arms around his neck, covering his mouth with yours again. He hums appreciatively, and now that you’re properly standing against him, you can feel his erection pressing against your stomach through his pants.

His hands grip onto either side of your neck as he kisses you feverishly. Then he pulls away and growls, “Get on the bed.” 

…

COMING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER: Sex, sex, and more sex! Twice as long as twice as X-rated as in He Said, She Said (while still remaining classy lol). Also, whipped cream and Shakespeare sonnets! (I know, what?) And lastly, will you and Tom EVER have your dessert? (BAM-BAM-BAAAAAAAM) 

-xosairbearxo


End file.
